


Countdown

by watanuki_sama



Category: Common Law
Genre: Countdown fic, Gen, Set pre-series, Some Swearing, a series of non-linear moments, for the new year, major spoilers for 1x12 'Gun!'
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-01
Updated: 2014-01-01
Packaged: 2018-01-06 23:50:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1112973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/watanuki_sama/pseuds/watanuki_sama
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Life is just a series of moments, counting down to the end. Oneshot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Countdown

**Author's Note:**

> Also posted on FF.net under the penname 'EFAW' on 12.31.13/01.01.14 (depending on where you are).
> 
> I’ve always wanted to do a counting fic, and this hit me while watching the rewatching Common Law finale. Some liberties were taken with the boys’ past relationship that, sadly, will never be disproven.

_“It’s time to start the countdown. I’m gonna burn it down down down.”_  
 _—P!nk, “Funhouse”_

\---

_**-Twenty-** _

He’s twenty months into his new assignment when Missing Persons and Property Crimes come together on a task force. Three people have disappeared without a struggle from their homes, and days later their homes get vandalized and cleaned out. Wes ends up shuffled onto the task force.

He sits in the back of the room going over the copied file pages and making notes to himself. When they break, Wes goes up to the corkboard and studies the pictures. He has a few theories, but he wants to make sure before he says anything…

Another detective sidles up beside him. “Any ideas?” the other male asks casually, eyeing the photos on the board.

Wes shrugs self-consciously and tucks his notepad in his pocket. “Nothing concrete yet.” He turns, hand out. “Wes Mitchell. Missing Persons.”

The other male turns, looking bemused. “David Paek. Property Crimes.” He gives Wes’s hand a firm shake. “But you can call me Paekman.”

_**-Nineteen-** _

“Oh my god, what happened?!”

“Let me get him inside, okay, Alex? Then I’ll explain everything, I promise.”

He can hear them, his two most favorite people in the whole wide world, and he opens his eyes so he can see them too because seeing them would be wonderful. But that just makes everything start spinning, round and round and it makes him sick, so he closes his eyes with a sigh and lets Travis drag him inside. Inside his home, smells like home, and Alex, and Alex is there, touching his face and it feel so good and he loves her soooo much.

They lay him down on the couch—squishy and leathery and nice and cool—and the spinning seems to stop but Wes doesn’t open his eyes just yet, in case that makes the spinning start up again. He’s doing okay without the spinning, yesirree. 

“Travis? What _happened?_ ” Alex sounds worried, and that’s no good, she’s not supposed to be upset when Travis comes over. Wes frowns to himself and decides that if Travis is making his wife upset, then Wes is going to do…something. Something _bad_. And then Travis won’t make Alex upset ever again and it’ll be good.

“We were asking around the neighborhood, seeing if anyone saw anything. It looked like a mugging gone bad; we weren’t expecting one of them to have done it. We certainly weren’t expecting the guy to beat Wes up with a lead pipe to make his escape, either. But it’s fine. We got the guy, and aside from some stitches and a cracked collarbone, Wes is fine. It’s all fine.”

“ _Fine?_ He’s got thirty stitches in his head!”

“There’s only nineteen stitches, and look, they’re right at his hairline, so the scar won’t even mess up his pretty face. He’s _fine_ , Alex. Honest. Not even a concussion, just a nasty cut.”

“Travis—”

“Don’t fight.”

The words take effort, but they must be said. Wes opens his eyes and stares at the ceiling, and when the spinning doesn’t come back, he lolls his head to the side and blinks at them. “Don’t fight.” Because they’re his two most favorite people and he loves them, and he doesn’t want them fighting. 

Alex is suddenly _there_ , in front of his face looking worried and he doesn’t like that. “Wes, honey? How are you feeling?”

Wes is going to have to get mad at…at something, for making his wife upset. She shouldn’t be upset. He’s fine. Travis said so. He should make her feel better again. Wes grins and says solemnly, “I love you.”

Her voice sounds funny when she says, “I love you too,” but she must be feeling better because she gives him a smile so it’s all okay now.

“Wes?”

He sort of looks up and oh, there’s Travis, a little blurry and watery around the edges but there, and that’s good, that’s very good. He beams again. “I love you too.”

Travis snorts and leans closer and the blurriness goes away. “That, my friend, is the painkillers talking.”

Wes thinks about it for a long time and decides, “They’re _good_ painkillers.”

Travis’s smile is bright and warm and full of the sun. “Only the best for you, buddy.” Travis moves out of view, but Wes can still hear him, so it’s fine. “Why don’t you go to sleep now, man. You’ll feel better in the morning.”

Wes says “Okay,” and closes his eyes, because sleep is sounding very good right now, so he snuggles into the couch. “No fighting.”

“We won’t fight,” Alex promises with a kiss to the cheek, and if she says it, it must be true, so it’s all good. Everything’s good.

“Do you mind if I stay the night?”

“Of course. Let me get you a blanket or something.”

“No, it’s fine. I wasn’t planning on sleeping.” Pause. “Do you want to sit down here with me?”

She sounds surprised and hesitant but also a little bit pleased. “Sure, alright.”

He can hear them and they’re not fighting, and that’s good, it’s all so good, and Wes falls asleep smiling to himself.

_**-Eighteen-** _

On February 18th, Wes reaches into the back of his closet and pulls out the garment bag that holds his black suit. The one he only wears to weddings and funerals. Moving on autopilot, he dresses in a pale grey shirt, the black suit, and a black tie. He hesitates on the threshold; for an instant, he has the crazy thought that if he just doesn’t leave, then it will all go away.

But he knows better than that, so he forces himself into the hall.

Travis is waiting when Wes pulls up. He’s dressed in the only suit he owns, and he looks like he’s strangling in his maroon tie. Wes’s hands itch to straighten the crooked knot. He tightens his grip on the steering wheel and drives.

They don’t say anything on the way to the church. Travis turns on the radio, but it does nothing to relieve the tension. Even if Wes knew what to say, he doesn’t think Travis would appreciate it.

There’s a sea of black and blue in the church, officers and detectives standing in a solemn gathering. Wes feels adrift, floating untethered in the mourners. The priest starts speaking, and his throat burns, but his eyes are dry. But then Travis leans into his arm and there’s a comfort, of a sort, being next to his partner and silently sharing the grief.

It’s not enough to bring Paekman back, but it’s better than nothing at all.

Halfway through the service, he realizes Travis isn’t listening anymore. He’s staring to his left, and his hands are clenched in fists. Wes follows his gaze and blanches. John Crowl and his cronies are lurking by the side entrance, bold as brass to be here right now. Technically, they have the right, sure, since Paekman was on their team when he died, but still. And the fact they showed up late just makes him burn, deep inside. He knows Travis is just as angry, and more likely to do something about it.

Wes slides his hand over Travis’s fist, a silent admonishment. It draws Travis out of his thoughts, makes him turn to look at Wes. Wes gives a small shake of his head. _We’ll get them later_ , he promises with his eyes, _We’ll take them down for what they did. But not now._

Not today. This is about Paekman, not Crowl.

For a moment, Travis stares at him, and Wes is afraid it’s not enough. But then he settles, hands trembling in suppressed rage. Wes wishes he could be so angry. He just feels numb.

He and Travis both stand at the end of the ceremony, along with four other men. Not Crowl and his team. Honestly, Wes is grateful for that. He doesn’t think either of them would be able to deal with that.

The weight of the coffin is almost enough to send him to his knees. Or maybe that’s the grief. He forces his back straight and he puts one foot in front of the other.

The procession moves solemnly to the yard behind the church. When Wes looks again, Crowl and his men are gone. Wes tries not to let it bother him, falling back beside Travis as the coffin is slowly lowered into the grave.

On the 18th of February, Wes watches one of his only friends get swallowed by the ground. As the first shovelful of dirt hits the coffin, the skies open up.

Wes just feels numb.

_**-Seventeen-** _

Within the first three months, Wes has compiled a list of seventeen stupidly annoying habits Travis has that he cannot _stand_ , a list he’s probably going to be adding to over the years. Five things on the list relate to Travis’s eating habits, four have to do with Travis’s abysmal paperwork skills, three are things Travis does in the car (probably just to irritate Wes), two are about Travis’s workspace (one for the constant mess, and one because Travis keeps taking Wes’s stuff without _asking_ like a _civilized_ person would), one is because of the constant yammering Travis does about his female conquests, one is the fact that Travis is a reckless teenager in a grown man’s body, and one is the touchy-feely way Travis has of always just… _touching_. Wes does not _like_ touching.

Sure, Travis has _some_ good points. He is utterly focused when they’re out in the field, he keeps his service weapon cleaned with a fastidiousness Wes can appreciate, and he seems to value Wes’s input, even if he doesn’t always follow the rules.

But the cons far outweigh the pros, resulting in a person Wes can only stand for limited amounts of time on a good day and wants to strangle on a bad day. On really bad days, Wes wonders if it’s even worth the hassle.

And then they’ll just… _click_. They’ll go out to catch some murdering scum-sucking bastard and they’ll move in synchronicity, knowing what the other is going to do without words and conveying an entire conversation with a glance and a nod. They’ll _click_ like they’re two bodies with one mind, and Wes will come away feeling high and giddy and exultant, like he’s riding on top of the world and everything is going his way.

It’s for that reason, and that reason alone, that Wes stays. Because that feeling, that sense of connection with another person, _that_ is worth it.

It doesn’t make Travis’s stupidly annoying habits any less stupid or annoying, though.

_**-Sixteen-** _

Over the years, Wes can think of sixteen people at work, off the top of his head, who are so angry or upset with Travis that Wes has to act as a buffer between them. Fifteen of them are women, most of whom Travis has dated and unceremoniously dumped after a few nights. One of them is a man who liked one of the aforementioned women, and didn’t appreciate how Travis treated her. And that is exactly why Wes doesn’t date his co-workers.

Honestly, if it weren’t so annoying to be caught in the middle, Wes would find it funny.

_**-Fifteen-** _

Wes can’t pinpoint the exact moment, the exact day, the exact time when their relationship falls apart. He can, however, identify the very moment he recognizes the death of their friendship. It’s about fifteen seconds after he punches Travis in the face for the first time.

He’s not even sure what they’re fighting about, just that they seem to be doing it more and more, and then fists are flying and they’re both standing there in shock. It takes a good fifteen seconds for Wes to realize, _‘Oh, we’re not friends anymore,’_ as he’s staring down at his fist in a numb sort of wonder.

Then he’s not thinking about it, because fifteen seconds is apparently how long it takes for Travis to recover from something so completely unexpected. He lets out a yell and lunges, tackling Wes onto the floor, and then they’re brawling, yelling and punching and there’s no time for any real thought. 

Wes doesn’t think about it until later, after they’ve been pulled apart and tossed in separate rooms to cool down, after the Chief has given them a stern talking-to and sent them home. He sits on the end of his bed and looks at his hands and wonders how things fell apart without him noticing.

He can’t remember the moment they fell apart, but he’ll always remember the moment he realized it, because by then it’s too late.

_**-Fourteen-** _

Exactly fourteen days after he moves out of the house, there’s a knock on the hotel door. Somehow, Wes isn’t as surprised as he should be to find Travis there, standing in the hall looking solemn and sad and a little worried. Wes sighs and hugs the door, pressing his forehead to the wood.

“Not today, Travis. Please. I really can’t deal with your crap today.”

Travis doesn’t crack a grin or make fun of him or make an offhand comment about Alex or do any of the things Wes was afraid he’d do. He just holds out his hand and says, “Come on, Wes. Lemme buy you a drink.”

Travis buys him several drinks, and Wes’s tongue loosens enough to talk about what happened. It doesn’t make anything better, but something unknots in his chest, and for the first time in two weeks he doesn’t feel like he’s drowning anymore.

_**-Thirteen-** _

Their first stakeout and Travis is in charge of the food, so Wes really should have expected the to-go bag from the burger joint down the street. He pulls a face as he gingerly digs through the bag. “This is the best you got? You couldn’t even get, like, vegetables?”

“Hey, these burgers have everything,” Travis retorts, reaching past Wes into the bag. He pulls out a burger and unwraps it, showing it to Wes. “See? That green stuff is lettuce. Veggies!”

“I do see,” Wes says, politely recoiling. “I also see the grease. You didn’t get _anything_ even a little healthy?”

“Ah, well…” Travis sets his burger in his lap and twists to reach the back. “Here.” He hands the pink-and-white pastry box to Wes.

Wes opens the lid and is face with a colorful assortment of donuts.

“Donuts,” he says flatly.

“Yeah, this place is great. They like cops so if you buy a dozen and show them your badge they’ll give you an extra one for free.”

“A bag of burgers and thirteen donuts. _That’s_ your idea of stakeout food.”

“Yeah, but look.” Travis points to a section of the box. “These four are low-fat. I was thinking of you, man.”

“They’re _donuts_ ,” Wes points out again. “I don’t care if they’re low-fat—how does that even work?—I’m not eating four donuts and calling it good.”

“Your loss.” Travis takes the box, plucking out a sprinkled donut and admiring it. “I’ll eat them all and you can go hungry.”

“I’m _already_ going hungry.”

Travis just grins around a mouthful of dough.

After twenty minutes Wes gives in and takes one of the supposedly ‘low-fat’ donuts. “I’m in charge of food next time,” he grumbles, and Travis just laughs.

_**-Twelve-** _

Travis once says he can tell Wes’s stress level by how much hand sanitizer he goes through in a day. On a good day, he’ll use maybe only two or three squirts of the stuff. On a bad day, he can easily go through a twelve ounce bottle and still need more.

He goes through a lot of bottles by the end.

_**-Eleven-** _

A broken-in home, a murdered couple, and a missing eleven-year-old girl, and Wes sees Travis lose control.

Every cop has a _thing_ , the one that gets under their skin and tears away at them, the thing that keeps them up at nights and makes them go and go and go and snap at the slightest provocation.

Travis’s thing is kids.

Wes follows his partner the entire case, watches Travis get more and more reckless, pushing harder and harder until he looks like a completely different person, and there’s nothing he can do. Travis isn’t listening, and making sure Travis doesn’t spin out of control is the only thing Wes can seem to accomplish.

Wes has been worried _for_ Travis plenty of times thanks to his partner’s foolish, reckless stunts, but this is honestly the first time he’s been worried _about_ Travis.

It isn’t until they’ve found the kidnappers’ lair and the girl is safely ensconced in Travis’s arms that Wes can relax. He looks at Travis, cradling the child and murmuring over and over, “You’re safe now, you’re okay, we’ve got you, you’re alright,” and something in Wes’s chest loosens. The girl is safe, and Travis will be fine.

After they’ve delivered the rescued girl into her weeping aunt’s arms, Wes puts his hand on Travis’s shoulder. Travis is trembling, watching the reunion and shaking as the adrenaline leaves his system and Wes has never felt so _helpless_ before.

“Hey.” He squeezes his hand lightly, draws Travis’s attention to him. “Lemme buy you a beer.”

Travis lets out a breath, looking shaky and worn-out and like he could use all the booze in the world. After a moment, he nods. “Yeah. Yeah, let’s do that.”

Wes keeps his hand on Travis’s shoulder until they get to the car, offering what support he can.

Travis lets him.

_**-Ten-** _

“Sir, I can explain—”

“Ah.”

They both obediently fall silent at the Captain’s raised hand, exchanging half-wary, half-pissed-off- looks with each other. Neither of them is quite sure what to do with the captain now that he’s gone through therapy and lost his angry slightly-psychotic edge.

Captain Sutton exhales, then opens his eyes and looks serenely at the two detectives. “You two were fighting again.” It is not a question.

Wes opens his mouth to protest (simply for form, because they were fighting again) but Travis jumps in and says, “It was all a misunderstanding!”

Wes gives his partner a Look. Travis wiggles one eyebrow and looks beseeching.

Oh. Wes can play that game.

“Yes…that’s…right.” Wes turns back to the captain and says dryly, “A _misunderstanding_. Travis _misunderstood_ when I said I would call a tow truck if he parked his motorcycle next to the fire hydrant again.”

Travis shoots Wes a dirty look that Wes pretends he can’t see. “And Wes _misunderstood_ when I told him that if he touched my bike I would key his car.”

“I didn’t touch your bike, you Neanderthal, and do you know how much it costs to repair that sort of damage—?”

“Boys. Boys!”

They stop, bristling at each other, and Sutton gestures to the chairs in front of his desk. “Sit.” When they make no move, he gestures again, and his voice has a bit of pre-therapy Captain in it. “ _Sit_.”

They sit. Travis shifts his chair a few inches away from Wes, and Wes angles his body away from Travis, and they pretend like it was completely unintentional.

“Good.” The captain folds his hands in front of him and stares levelly at the two detectives. “Now, I want you to close your eyes.” He demonstrates. Wes and Travis share another look between them. Without opening his eyes, Sutton says, “Close them.”

Looking like he’s eating a bitter lemon, Travis closes his eyes. After a moment, Wes follows suit.

“Good,” says the captain ( _how does he know?_ ) and Wes hears the captain inhale, long and slow. Travis’s breaths are a bit sharper and shorter, still angry and upset about his bike. Even if it was his own damn fault.

“Now, I’m going to count to ten, and I want you to inhale, nice and deep. Fill yourself up with all of this anger, and hate, and just breathe it all in.” The captain inhales to demonstrate. “And then I’ll count backwards from ten, and you’ll just let it go. Let it _all_ go. Your breath, the anger, the fighting. Just let it go and fill yourself up with peace.”

Wes opens his eyes and stares at the captain. He finds Travis doing the same thing, and they share a baffled grin before remembering they’re supposed to be mad at one another.

“ _Close. Your. Eyes._ And breathe _in_ …one…two…three…”

_**-Nine-** _

After hours of deliberation, the jury comes back with a guilty verdict. Wes can’t do anything but sit there as the bailiff leads Anthony away. His eyes catch Wes’s, desperate, pleading, scared, and Wes is just…shocked. Too stunned to reassure him that he’ll do everything in his power to make this right.

Nine days later, Wes gets the proof that the police were wrong, the evidence lied, and his client was innocent.

It’s five days too late.

Wes’s world starts crashing down.

_**-Eight-** _

The eighth time Travis comes to Wes’s house, he’s sick. More accurately, Wes brings Travis to his house because he’s sick. After two days of missed work, Wes goes to Travis’s trailer to find his partner has a fever of 101 and has spent the last hour vomiting, and Wes would have to be pretty heartless to leave Travis in that state, and anyway it’s not like Travis can take care of himself on a good day, let alone when he’s continuously barfing. So he bundles Travis up in his car and threatens him profusely should Travis even so much as _think_ about vomiting in his car and drives home.

Alex is amused, but she helps Wes get Travis into the guest bedroom. Wes makes chicken soup and spends most of the weekend pouring soup and orange juice down Travis’s throat until Travis’s fever breaks on Sunday morning. By Sunday evening it’s as though Travis _wasn’t_ sick for four days, and Wes kind of hates him a little.

“No you don’t,” Travis laughs when Wes says this. “You care about me. You care a lot. You even made me soup.”

“I made you soup because it would inconvenience me if you died from a fever,” Wes snarks, crossing his arms defensively. “Do you know how much of a pain it would be to break in a new partner? I have to keep you alive.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Travis scoffs, bouncing to his feet. He gives Wes a brief, stiff, but sincere hug, and murmurs, “Thanks, partner.”

Wes drives Travis home and feels all warm and fuzzy for a few hours. Which later turns into a fever as the cold wreaks havoc on his system, and Wes goes back to cursing his partner.

_**-Seven-** _

“I told you to stop going through my stuff,” Wes says. Travis looks up, Wes’s pocketknife in his hand—because Wes values efficiency, and there’s nothing more efficient than a pocketknife with seven tools in one, including a pair of teeny tiny scissors.

Teeny tiny scissors that Travis is currently using to trim his nails.

Travis doesn’t even have the decency to look ashamed at being caught. “Wes, man, this thing is great. Look how nice my nails are now.” He holds one hand up for inspection. Wes doesn’t look because he doesn’t care. “Really, the only thing missing is a corkscrew.”

“Travis…”

“No, you’re right, why bother with a corkscrew? We never drink wine when we’re out, and I’m sure you have a corkscrew at home for all your boring dinner parties.” His face lights up in realization. “We need a _bottle opener_. That would make this thing _totally_ awesome.”

Wes holds out his hand. “First, stop going through my stuff. Second, stop saying ‘we’. It’s _my_ pocketknife. Third, give it back. Fourth, _stop going through my stuff_.”

Travis grumbles, but to his credit, he slaps the tool into Wes’s hand. “I still think a bottle opener would be fantastic. You should get one.”

“Yeah, I’ll look into it,” Wes grumbles, shoving the knife in his pocket and making a mental note to sterilize it when he gets home. After all, who _knows_ where Travis has been.

And he does _not_ need a bottle opener on his pocketknife, thankyou very much.

_**-Six-** _

( _one_ ) They shake hands in the firing range, and Paekman just grins against the partition. “What’s the line from that movie? ‘This is gonna be the beginning of a beautiful friendship’.”

( _two_ ) “He’s so _annoying_ ,” Wes grumbles, and Paekman just laughs and says, “Yeah, but I think you guys will be great together.”

( _three_ ) He comes back with his coffee and a bagel in time to hear Paekman tell Travis, “Come on, man, Wes isn’t that bad and you know it,” and he lingers long enough to hear Travis reluctantly agree. 

( _four_ ) “Yo, boys.” Paekman leans in with a grin. “Think you can put off the catfight for a few minutes? If you can, I’m buying.” He grabs Wes’s shoulders, gives him a hearty shake. “Tacos, Wes, free tacos!” and Wes can’t help but smile.

( _five_ ) “These guys are bad news, man, it’s getting weird,” and Wes picks up the phone to hear his friend’s voice, shaking and scared, and something clenches in his stomach. So they go. They’ll be there to help. They won’t let Paekman do this alone.

( _six_ ) He stands at the crime scene, staring down at Paekman. At Paekman’s _body_ , because they got here too late, they couldn’t help, Paekman is _dead_ and they did _nothing_ and the world spins beneath his feet.

Six bullets and everything falls apart (again).

_“Go ahead, boys. Shake hands.”_

_**-Five-** _

“Here.”

Wes stares at the box. It’s got wrapping paper and ribbon and Wes can think of no reason why Travis would be giving him such a thing.

“What’s this?” he asks suspiciously. Something is up, and he doesn’t trust it when Travis starts being generous.

“Just open it,” Travis says earnestly. He’s wearing his wide-eyed innocent face. Wes just gets more wary.

Extremely reluctantly, he opens the package.

He stares at the thing inside.

“What.” It’s not a question. It’s a sound of complete disbelief given voice.

“I saw it and thought of you,” Travis purrs with a flutter of his eyes.

Wes pulls out the thing. It’s a six-inch wooden carving of a fork and spoon, except the fork and spoon both have big cartoonish eyes and they’re smiling with demented, clownish grins.

“What,” Wes repeats flatly.

“Well, the list online said traditionally the gift is wood, but there’s a modernized list that says five years is silverware. I couldn’t decide, so I chose the best of both worlds.” Travis snorts, dropping his chin on his hands with an impish grin. “I figured you would know that, Mr. Married Man.”

Wes blinks at his partner. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Travis makes a hurt face and grabs his chest. “You don’t _remember_? I’m hurt, Wes! I would have thought you were the type who remembered every birthday and anniversary.”

“I am,” Wes says absently, looking at the ugly thing. Suddenly it clicks. “This is an _anniversary gift_.”

“Duh.”

Wes rubs the bridge of his nose as though that will help ease the sudden headache. Unfortunately, this particular headache is named ‘Travis’ and has a tendency to linger. “Okay, first, it’s not our anniversary. Second, even if it was, we’ve only been partnered for three years, so you’re way off. Third, contrary to popular belief, _we are not married_.”

Travis watches him with a grin. It’s the grin that says _I love messing with you because you make funny faces_. It only grows wider as Wes talks. “But it _is_ our anniversary, Wes. Five years ago today, Paekman introduced us on the shooting range. It may not have meant much to you, but I felt a spark.”

Wes sighs, shoving the ugly thing onto Travis’s desk. “It’s because you say stupid stuff like that people think we’re married.”

“You mean you’re not?” Amy asks as she walks by, feigning surprise.

“Happy anniversary, boys,” Kate calls, trailing her partner.

Wes shoots a suspicious glance at his own partner. Travis is wearing his innocent face again.

“I may have sent a memo.”

Wes groans and resists the urge to drop his head to his desk. “I hate you so much.”

_**-Four-** _

He’s sitting in the corner of the cafeteria, simultaneously picking idly at his limp salad and staring at the four mug shots in front of him, when a voice says, “Whacha doin’, Mitchell?”

He glances up. “Oh, hey Paekman.” He shuffles the papers to the side, waving for the other detective to sit. “What’s up?”

Paekman sets his tray down, leaning over to snatch up the mug shots as he sits. Wes shoots him a dirty look but doesn’t protest. Not like there’s much Paekman can glean from a few pictures.

“These girls are missing?” Paekman questions, flipping through the four photos. Wes makes a sound of assent around a bite of lettuce. “Connected?”

“Maybe,” Wes says, looking down at his bowl. “No one seems to think so but me.” He sighs. “I think someone’s taking them and murdering them. But there’s nothing linking the disappearances, and everyone is saying it’s just a coincidence.”

“That sucks.” Paekman hands the mug shots back, and Wes carefully puts them on the seat next to him. “Let me guess, no bodies?”

“Exactly.” Wes sighs dryly. “Which means even if I’m right, there’s nothing I can do about it.” _No body, no crime_ is the unofficial motto of the LAPD. Probably of every police force in the country.

Paekman raises an eyebrow. “There are four girls missing, you think there’s a serial snatcher-possible-murderer doing it, and no one’s listening? _Why?_ ”

Wes stabs angrily at his salad. “Because no one cares about a bunch of missing hookers, that’s why.”

The sudden silence makes him look up. Paekman is staring at him like he just saw a unicorn. Wes shifts. 

“What?”

“Hookers?” Paekman gestures to the mug shots at Wes’s side. “The missing girls are working girls?”

“Yes.” Wes studies Paekman’s face and feels a spark of hope. “You know something?”

“Not me, no.” The hope crumbles. Wes looks back down at his salad. Of course Paekman doesn’t know anything. It was stupid to think he would. No one does. It’s one of those mysteries that will probably end up in a box somewhere, to be revisited when he’s feeling maudlin and nostalgic.

“But I might know someone who does,” Paekman continues, and the hope flares back to life. If he can find these girls, if he can keep any more from being taken…

Paekman smiles. “Do you know Travis Marks? He works Narco and Vice,” he continues at Wes’s shake of the head. “And he thinks the same thing you do. Maybe you can put your heads together and do something about it.”

“Marks, you said?” Wes asks, aiming for nonchalance. He doesn’t want to get too excited. It might just be a whole lot of nothing.

Paekman chuckles, seeing right through Wes. “Yeah. Travis.” Then he leans back in his chair and grins. “You know, I think you’ll like him.”

_**-Three-** _

Alex’s smile is wide and pleased the first time she meets Travis, and Wes feels inexplicably proud. Like he did something to be praised for. _Look what I found. Can we keep him?_

For a while, he thinks that thing are going to be okay again, that things are going to go back to the way they were. She laughs when Travis tells stupid jokes he doesn’t understand, she sits between Wes and Travis on the couch watching old movies, her eyes sparkle when the three of them have lunch together. Wes thinks it’s going to work. Travis brings life back to their strained marriage, and he thinks there’s a chance to flame that spark, to bring things back to the way they were.

But Travis always has to go home, and the spark dies as soon as he’s gone, no matter what Wes tries to do to fan the flames.

After a while, he stops trying, because it doesn’t matter what he does. He stops trying to make it work and he tries to stop caring. Travis is the one who brings the sparkle to her eyes, and a marriage can’t work with three people.

_**-Two-** _

Macaroni and cheese. Peanut butter and jelly. Salt and pepper. Ham and cheese. Mashed potatoes and gravy. 

Travis and Wes.

He’s not sure when he and Travis become a pair. It seems like all of a sudden, he notices that they’re no longer _Travis_ and _Wes_ , they’re _TravisandWes_ , some sort of amalgamation of the two. People don’t ask for just one because they know the other will be right behind. They’ve become a hybrid creature, and everyone knows it.

Falling apart is the same way, only faster. One day, out of the blue, Wes notices that they’re no longer _TravisandWes_ , he’s just _Wes_. Because they’re not joined at the hip anymore. They’re separate, and Travis goes his own way, and that closeness they once had is gone.

Wes isn’t sure where it went.

_**-One-** _

Travis is the one who puts the cuffs on, and Wes stands back with his gun at the ready and he’s proud how his hands don’t shake until the killer is in the back of the car and the gun is back by his side.

Travis comes up, looking a little shaken but…not _satisfied_ , but _proud_ that he managed to catch a killer and keep him from hurting any more girls, and he points to Wes’s shaking hand. “First time?”

_First time pulling your gun_ , Wes knows is the question he’s actually asking. He holsters his gun and rubs his hands together, wishing for sanitizer.

“First serial killer,” he says, trying for cool and nonchalant and missing the mark, if the look on Travis’s face is any indication.

Still, he claps Wes on the shoulder and says, “You did good work. Thanks. For watching my back.” And unspoken are the words, _Thanks for believing me_.

Wes doesn’t know that because of this case, Phil is going to eventually transfer out of the LAPD, or that he’ll get a brand new partner, a partner he caught a serial killer with. He doesn’t know that this arrest will soon become the first arrest of many.

Standing there, watching Travis walk back to the car, he thinks of it as the first time Travis compliments his police work, and he feels pleased.

_**-Zero-** _

“Travis! If you move one more inch, I swear to god I’ll shoot.”

The world stops. There’s silence, and everyone freezes, watching, waiting. Travis doesn’t move, back tense and angry, and Wes’s hands shake.

He turns, slowly, and in those blue eyes there’s rage that slowly dims to shock, and they both know that if Wes pulls the trigger he’s not going to miss. 

Sutton is there, trying to talk him down, but for a moment Wes doesn’t move, staring at his partner. Because he doesn’t know what Crowl said, but he knows Travis, and he knows that if Travis goes out there right now, the way he is now, someone is going to die tonight.

Wes won’t let that happen, even if it means bringing his own world down around his ears again.

It’s not the threat of thirty guns drawing on him that makes him lower his weapon. It’s the look in those blue eyes, the ceasefire. The rage is still there, burning underneath the surface, but the homicidal hysteria is gone, and nothing will die tonight except possibly Wes’s career. The gun droops and Sutton takes it and Wes doesn’t say a word as they wrap the cuffs around his wrist, just watches his partner until he’s dragged away and Travis is out of sight.

They take him to an interrogation room, where he sits and shakes and he wonders what he just did.

Travis didn’t go out and kill anyone, but Paekman is still dead and Crowl and his gang are still getting away with murder and he’s probably just flushed his career down the toilet.

The fires are already burning to tear his second career away from him, just like the first, and he sits in the interrogation room and shakes until the shaking stops and then he closes his eyes and all he feels is

_nothing._

**Author's Note:**

> A countdown fic to help count down the new year. I’m only about 90% happy with how it ended, but after six months of revising and tweaking, I finally decided it was as done as it’s gonna be. I hope you enjoyed reading it anyway.


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